(Ayesha’s POV)

Ayesha stood at the top of the grand staircase, her fingers tightening around the soft folds of her saree. The deep emerald silk shimmered in the evening light, a perfect match to the heavy emerald necklace sitting cold around her throat — a silent symbol of the Thakur wife.

Below, the house filled with the low murmur of conversation, the sound of whiskey being poured, and the subtle weight of danger. Rudra’s most powerful partners were here — men who controlled cities with a phone call, men who lived and died by loyalty and power.

She knew what this night meant. It wasn’t just dinner. It was politics, power moves hidden beneath polite conversation, and she — Rudra’s wife — was part of the display.

When Rudra walked into the room, the air shifted. His presence commanded attention, even from men who ruled empires. He was dressed in black, sharp and lethal, and when his dark eyes lifted to hers, her heart stumbled in her chest.

He had barely spoken to her all day. After the morning — after what he did to her — she didn’t expect softness. But she also didn’t expect this undeniable pride in the way he looked at her now.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. When he reached her, his hand slid to her waist, fingers firm but not cruel. "You look beautiful," he said quietly — for her ears only.

Her throat tightened. This Rudra — the one who still saw her, the one who remembered loving her — hurt more than his cruelty ever could.

“Let’s go.” His tone shifted back to command, and she followed him down into the den where his partners waited.

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The dinner was elegant, the conversation a dangerous dance of alliances and threats wrapped in velvet words. Ayesha sat beside Rudra, her posture perfect, her smile soft. She spoke only when spoken to — the ideal mafia wife — but every time Rudra’s hand brushed hers, her heart betrayed her.

He was different tonight.

Instead, he poured her drink himself, his touch lingering a second too long. He introduced her with pride, calling her his queen, his strength.

The partners, ruthless men with blood on their hands, treated her with absolute respect — because Rudra Thakur’s woman was untouchable.

"You are a lucky man, Rudra," one of the older men said, lifting his glass toward Ayesha. "A woman this beautiful — no wonder you couldn't let her go."

Rudra’s jaw tightened slightly, but his smile never faltered. "Some things," he said, eyes locked on hers, "are worth fighting for — no matter the cost."

Ayesha’s pulse hammered in her ears. She knew — they both knew — his words were a blade disguised as affection.

When dinner ended and the partners left, the silence between them was heavy. He stood at the bar, pouring himself a drink, back to her.

“You didn’t humiliate me” Her voice was soft, uncertain.

He turned, glass in hand. “I would never let anyone else disrespect my wife.”

The words twisted something painful inside her. “But you do.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s between us.”

He crossed the room slowly, until he stood inches from her. His fingers caught her chin, tilting her face up to his. “In front of the world, you’re my queen. In my bedroom, you’re my liar, my betrayer, my prisoner.” His thumb traced her lower lip, and her breath shuddered out. “Don’t forget that.”

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to cry. Not tonight.

"Why?" she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He just walked away, leaving her alone in the glittering silence — dressed like a queen, but feeling like a ghost.

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End of Chapter 7